multiversallogs | what one requires is good staff.

Entry tags:

what one requires is good staff.

Who: Narcissa Black and anyone who feels like it
What: A place of her own, finally
Where: Syriac Well
When: About a week after the celebration at The Apache
Notes: Um.
Warnings: None?

A slightly unusual sight, but not for one of Narcissa's world (unless one knew Narcissa), there is a line of floating, dropcloth-covered items trailing neatly behind the elegant blonde as she walks confidently through the quiet streets of Syriac Well.

Not one to spurn an opportunity when she finds it, she's well aware that there were victims of this most recent... troubles whose symptoms developed to a more permanent status. In other words, there were several stately homes standing empty in this part of Baedal, and the judicious sale of the crowpearls she'd been hoarding had been enough to secure her ownership rights to one of the smaller manses on the Rue Sainte-Catherine. There was no need for a full manor house, but she'd had more than enough of the Inn, and cared not for the smaller apartment-style homes available.

Finding an agent of sale had been a little difficult, but a few words here and there located one she felt reasonably certain was reasonably honest, and after carefully checking the contract of sale and title, she was satisfied that this home was hers for the taking. All she had to do now was get the few new items of furniture arranged inside. Tables and chairs were one thing, but she flatly refused to sleep on a mattress someone had died on - and there were linens, tableware, a chaise... rather a lot for one person, really.

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Unusually obedient ducklings, to borrow the metaphor - when Narcissa turns at the sound of her name, only two items bump one another, and immediately settle when she frowns, her wrist flickering sideways at them.

"Ilde."

Her tone is one of surprise too, but more because she hadn't really expected anyone she knew to be out here, rather than at the company itself.

"Hello to you, as well... I didn't know you resided in these parts?"

"I don't," she says, shrugging; she doesn't seem out of place here, certainly, but she'd been leaving as they bumped into each other. "I have music students in the area." She's got music students elsewhere, too, but the pay in this locale is better, and a girl's gotta fund that shoe collection somehow. It's a terribly ladylike occupation, as she's wryly aware; her father would approve, if he had to approve of her doing anything, far more than joining a post-apocalyptic army to march on New York.

(Ivan had found the idea of going from an apocalypse to interior design sort of hilarious, and- well, it's not not funny.)

"You must be- moving in?" Judging by all that.

Edited 2011-08-15 09:54 (UTC)

Two things Narcissa can relate to, though only one is spoken.

"And what instrument do you teach?"

The shoe collection can be judged by the pair on her feet... and the many more soon to fill the wardrobes in her new home - only one house up from where they stand.

"I am. There's no sense in letting perfectly acceptable homes stand empty."

In other words, finders keepers.

A smile crosses her face, briefly - some of the time it isn't so much that she doesn't have expressions, just that they don't linger long, that she fades back into that steady serenity a little too quickly. It's a self-protective measure (never let them see you weak- never let them see you anything) that she hasn't had time yet to be free of. Properly recovering from her captivity is simply far lower on her priorities than it should be.

"Which one?" she asks, lightly, as she adjusts the sit of her purse against her hip, presently containing the usual and what she'd brought for teaching today.

A pause, bringing herself back to Narcissa's question, she says, "Cello, violin and piano, mostly. String and wind are ideal, but I suppose if you gave me any instrument, I could teach you to play it." Witches practise magic; the fae are magic. It's not just fun, it's occasionally profitable.

The play of emotions across her face is almost too quick for Narcissa to catch, but the smile lingers in her eyes for long enough to be evident. She wonders if that's specific to Ilde, or to fae in general; not ever having met one prior to the city's abduction of her, Narcissa is more than a little fascinated by Ilde, though she tries not to make it apparent.

"This one here, actually," Narcissa replies, an elegant hand directing Ilde's attention to the charming home behind the box hedges. The wrought-iron gate is open invitingly, and the windows are open in an attempt to get some air flowing through.

As to Ilde's musical skills, "Quite a selection. You must have some talent; do you tune, as well?"

Ilde wears her inhumanity quite openly for a woman whose appearance is a masquerade; she likes to control what people see of her, but she isn't truly pretending to be other than what she is. It's a point of pride, and her pride in her music is a facet of that now, where before it hadn't much mattered to her. (Sometimes she wishes she had her father's passion for their shared gift - but her artistic inclinations lie in other directions, truthfully.)

"I can," she says, looking toward the house with a hint of approval; for the most part, she keeps an eye on Narcissa herself, but more and more it's likely evident that she's watching her mouth rather than hearing what she says clearly. "Music is part of me- it's all like breathing." Most of her students will never possess that mastery, because what Ilde does can't be taught, but that's more due to the fact it's inherent power that flows through her veins and not any kind of slight on the accomplishments they are capable of.

It's sort of like how one wouldn't put her in a swimming competition against humans.

"Do you play? That's a lovely house." ...non sequiturs, sometimes they happen. (That is partly fey temperament. They're like cats, curious and playful and a little sadistic.)

Masquerade or no, that pride lifts her chin, makes her stand a little straighter - all things Narcissa notices, if not quite consciously. The fae woman exudes... something... and Narcissa can't quite look away. So it is that she also notices that Ilde watches her speak, rather than looks her in the eye.

Curious.

"Innate talent, then," she concedes, then smiles in acknowledgement of the external beauty of her new home. "Thank you; there's still some interior work to be done, as you can see--" Her duckling furniture shifts a little - look at us! "--and a piano to be tuned, if you've the time and inclination."

A pause, because truly, they're not friends. Not yet. And so, "You'd be compensated, of course."

"Of course," with another of those shutter-flicker smiles, her glance flicking once to the motion of the furniture that she keeps expecting to chirp. (Some forms of magic are more surreal than others, in her opinion.) "I'd be happy to, since I'm here." It isn't as though she's in a rush to get anywhere right now, and she does share her father's strong views about keeping instruments well-tuned - besides, it's probably not going to need a full tuning.

Conversationally, as she begins to move again - if she's joining her, they might as well go on and not keep the ducklings waiting out here on the street - she remarks, "I did some work in interior design here, to start, for Mr Veidt and Mr Luthor. Balancing their tastes was interesting. You'll have an easier time, suiting yourself."

Judging by her tone, Ilde's generally inclined to approve of suiting oneself, even if she found babysitting the egos of the gentlemen in question pretty damned entertaining more often than she didn't.

Of course. Always pleased to have a to-do checked off her internal lists - Narcissa likes lists - she nods her thanks and motions the furniture to follow them through the gate and up to the front door of the house. There's no chirping, though a small ottoman begins to jostle the chaise in an attempt to get ahead in line.

An ornate brass key unlocks the door, and Narcissa invites Ilde in. There are wards, of course, and it's likely she'll feel them ripple over her skin as she enters - but if she does, Narcissa won't see it, as she's momentarily distracted by directing her furniture.

"Upstairs, blue parlour; dining room; master suite; service hall; music room--" She turns to her companion as the boxes and chaises and one stately mattress float off in their assigned directions, "Most of the interior here is quite austere, I rather like it. It lends a sense of space... but I'll be making some changes, as I'm sure you've guessed."

Torn between playing hostess and getting straight to business, Narcissa opts for the middle ground.

"Would you care for refreshment before you look at the piano?"

It's a warm afternoon.

The wards are interesting and reinforce the signature of Narcissa's magic in her mind; she'll recognize it again, if she sees it elsewhere, she'll know the taste and texture. It's no more than a passing note, though, and the neat compromise draws her attention away shortly thereafter. It suits.

"I'm very 16th century in my tastes-" Venetian, not really best described as 'austere', though it could be said her own aesthetic (and often cool mood) might better suit something of the like, "-but I like the elegance. And yes, please."

She falls easily into the patter of this prim, terribly British way of getting along in a way that's almost soothing - shows her breeding, Pris would say, laughing - in the wake of all the things that aren't the same any more, the twisted up knots of something is wrong that have nothing to do with her species. Not everything is broken, she didn't lose it all, she's still in control and she still knows who she is. She's still deciding who she is, as good as ever at choosing the right manner for the right moment.

"Thank you--" And it's true thanks - Narcissa doesn't often get the chance to present herself in her own manner other than her dress, so to have her choices complimented is a boost to her confidence. "--my mother decorated in a combination of Tudor and Louis Fourteen, depending on which room one was in. I prefer cleaner lines."

That same prim, British way of getting along that Ilde finds so soothing is also Narcissa's manner of dealing with situations she's unsure of. The last two plagues have more than proved that, magic use aside, this is nothing like home - and nobody seems to have any idea about her world, and who she is in it. It's both refreshing and highly irritating, so the rules and dictates of polite society are her fallback.

"Please come through - I've tea, and some petit fours, or there's fresh fruit juice if you prefer."

The kitchen is light and airy, and although it contains the relatively modern elements the previous occupants left behind, it's magic powering the refrigerator and other appliances - the plugs and cords are all looped neatly on hooks by the power outlets, the switches in the off-position.

In Ilde's experience and opinion, it's a game like everything else (of course it is, principessa, that's why it has rules, do you see?) - but they know these rules, and they're both still learning the other ones. While generally inclined to a certain frankness, she's more selective when she's playing this role in particular, which is probably why she doesn't mention her own mother preferred art deco and referred to Emery's Italian house as a masturbatory delusion of grandeur.

Then again, it isn't as though she talks about her mother at any other time, either.

"Fruit juice would be ideal," she says, instead, briefly diverted by the mix of magic and muggle in the kitchen's layout; it's curious and clever, and she decides a moment later that she likes it. "I've got to be careful with things like caffeine, even in tea- it's terrible." If it were that terrible, she wouldn't talk about it, so presumably it's not going to be the end of the world. It's just that alcohol isn't the only thing that rockets through her fae system like a bat out of hell, and fruit juice at least goes down the way it's meant to; she's designed to eat light and well.

"Did you do this yourself?" The magic, she means, not quite touching the refrigerator, as if she can feel it - because that's precisely the case, and her tone holds subtle admiration.

An excellent conversational decision; Narcissa would be at a complete loss for words should that have been mentioned. There are some things she simply will not discuss. With anyone. Ever. Even if it relates to interior design.

"Certainly," Narcissa smiles politely, and pours them both a glass of juice - orange and mango, freshly pressed - as she takes in the fae's appearance a little more closely. The other woman is built on fine lines, and she supposes that caffeine in one so compact is probably not the best of ideas.

"I suppose that's to do with your species," she says. It's matter-of-fact, with no slight intended - a simple observation. Offering Ilde one of the beverages, Narcissa sips at and clearly swallows a mouthful of her own drink, a silent display of hospitality. She won't ask the other woman to show her trust so early in the piece.

But as to the kitchen, "Yes. I've something of a knack for Charms." She knew precisely what was meant, and is being modest. Narcissa holds a Charms Mastery, and she's very, very good at them. "You can sense them?"

Having a habit of yet more ambiguous observations that tend to be precisely that - observations - Ilde takes no offense as she accepts her glass, sensitive to tone and not bothering to bristle when it isn't necessary.

"I can- that's also to do with my species. I can feel magic like a...muscle memory, a taste, a note of music." All of those things, all at once, and none of them; she simply doesn't have the vocabulary for the sense that she's trying to describe. If she knew her ancestor's language, she might be capable of more clarity, eloquence, but then, Narcissa probably doesn't speak that language, either. "Everything has its own."

And none of them come with labels, it's maddening. She's figured out 'vampire', and she thinks she can begin to differentiate between the types thereof - she knows that witches of Narcissa's type are different to those of Sonja's type in their world whose potent magical nature is more intrinsic like her own, descended from angels and set apart from humanity. One word means half a dozen different things and she listens for the differences in how they pluck at her like the strings on her cello.

Edited 2011-08-17 12:19 (UTC)

"It's that physical?" There's genuine interest. Having come from a very, very old magical line, Narcissa is attuned to the magic of her world, but it's not a palpable sensation so much as it is an ease of use. She lacks that sense, here, though magic is accessible and plentiful - and she recognises the spellwork of those she knows well.

So far, that's limited to Lucius, but magical theory intrigues her, and should today turn out well, Narcissa is hopeful she'll be able to pick Ilde's mind at some point. So to speak.

"Does it confuse you? I imagine there'd be quite a cacophony of magical signatures here."

With a nod (it is that physical, and sometimes fascinating - her blood left traces of her magic in Ivan, it's like a sense memory echoing back to her), she says, "Often it's like meaningless white noise in the background, but as with anything..." Her shrug is elegant and eloquent; you pick out distinct parts as you get nearer the source. "Mostly I learn what it means by watching."

Patience is a virtue, and all that. (Provided what you're doing is virtuous, presumably.)

"Some people don't like to have their illusions recognized, though, so." Tact. She doesn't ask about everything she notices.

Blood magic has a similar effect in her world, though precious few practice it.

"No, I don't imagine they would..." Narcissa would probably be happy to answer questions for purely academic reasons, should it come to that. Not publicly, though. A girl does like her secrets... though there are precious few here and now. Ilde might pick up on several heavily warded areas of the house - their significance will not be obvious. "But you could turn that into quite the lucrative sideline, were you mercenary enough."

She sips at her juice.

"I could, too." She probably isn't; the likely scenario is that the people most likely to pay well for that kind of information have a worrying amount of crossover with the kind of people Ilde would cheerfully spike in the eye with a red Zanotti heel. "It's one of those things I should learn more about first, either way, I think- I'm sort of making it all up as I go along."

Learning to wield magic beyond what's simple instinct is complicated by not having anyone like her to teach her what she's meant to be able to do; her practise of it, when she reaches for it, is raw and childlike. She can persuade the water to obey her, in a moment of need, but she couldn't say precisely how she does it.

If this does go well, they might have some very interesting conversations.

Making it up as she-- Narcissa winces. That's a sure way to explosions, both internal and external.

"R-really? There's nothing at all to guide you?"

Do excuse the vague panic in her voice. She's still intrigued by Ilde's brand of magic, but the idea of potential disasters is not a pleasant one - though once she gets over her initial shock, she might realise she's interested in following that path where it leads.

"I've got far on instinct, I think," she says, thoughtfully; shapeshifting was mostly instinct and she'd mastered illusions by the necessity of desperation in the Prometheus facility. She grasped influence, even if she had trouble implementing it smoothly- that was, she felt, where she had to be most careful. (Frankly, she was wary of trying anything with it at all in Baedal, where she never quite knew how it would interact with the people around her. Humans were one thing.)

It isn't that she doesn't notice Narcissa's concern so much as she doesn't know precisely the best way to respond to it, and thus doesn't, directly.

"But no, I don't know anyone like me- it's all been trial and error." For years, now, though she'd been significantly limited before. Prometheus kept her weak, deliberately, because of the potential she has to be quite dangerous.

Narcissa is firmly of the opinion that instinct should be followed only when one has a thorough understanding of what one is working with, since the combination of knowledge and instinct leads to progress and innovative spellwork - but pure instinct... pure instinct is dangerous.

She smiles politely.

"I see. Have you considered documenting your progress as a way to form some sort of... oh, pattern to follow? A way to know what hasn't worked and why, to assist in building a basis for further learning?"

These are the moments Narcissa's inner Ravenclaw makes itself known.

Ilde's fleeting glance before she answers is genuinely slightly amused - that's some cute underestimating you're doing there, human. She assumes, generously, that Narcissa doesn't intend to condescend to her and it's only a personal flaw. (The alternative is a prejudice, and they're getting along so well she prefers not to think of it if she doesn't have to.)

"Of course." She wasn't able to write it down initially (she wasn't able to do a great deal, initially), but now she isn't locked up any more. Many of her notes aren't here, they're back in her world with the rest of the enclave, but she's rewritten a great deal in her spare time here and she makes new notes as she goes, especially now that she's teaching music. She can feel it. "Now that I have a name, I'll be able to find sources, but I suppose most of them will be human in origin."

And therefore potentially useless.

Edited 2011-08-22 11:36 (UTC)

Of course it is. The fae are all but a myth where she's from, and Ilde does look deceptively human with that clever glamour. But no, the intent wasn't condescending - though she tends to come across that way, snobbish thing that she is.

"Ah..." Well. That's something, at least? And of course, Narcissa is now curious about these findings, but will restrain herself for now. "It's a starting point, if nothing else."

Perhaps, perhaps not. If the source material is old enough, there may be more kernels of truth than not.

"...would you like to see the piano?"

Ilde used to be in the orbit of girls very like Narcissa; it's not unfamiliar, in the same way that good manners and pianos aren't unfamiliar. They were usually her friends, so it's easy to fall into the pattern of finding the attitude amusing, and not offensive. (It's just that now she knows there's an alternative.)

"Yes, please. I'm looking to see if I can find a harp anywhere, for myself," a harp she can afford, or at least one owned by someone who'll let her come and play it. "Do you know if the piano was made in the city or if it's an import?"

She's rather used to being the focal point of her group of friends, if not in an obvious way, and it's probably safe to say her attitude is borne of habit. Narcissa is well-bred and her society's equivalent of high born, and it shows in almost every nuance of her behaviour.

"Oh? A great harp, or a lap harp?" Over her shoulder as she leads the way out of the kitchen and towards the grand staircase. The room she'd found the piano in was well insulated with lovely acoustics, and she found it easier to simply leave it there... "it" being a grand piano in the traditional sense. "Here she is... and she's imported; her maker's mark is Pleyel."

Which might have convinced her to take this particular abandoned manse over any other; her own piano is a Pleyel.

"A great harp," she says, as she approaches the instrument with a familiar eye. "Some of the pieces my father wrote for me just don't sound exactly right on instruments other than the ones they were meant for." Her own music lessons, once upon a time, were fairly memorable. Her father, for that matter, is a fairly memorable man; a good name and old money and forgiveable eccentricities. This is where Ilde came from, but the fact she makes note of the layout of the house and exit routes is a more recently learned habit and arguably more practical.

The piano looks a little like one she remembers from her terribly impractical home, on that note. "Is it badly out of tune?"

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what one requires is good staff.

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sorry, i had to eat quesadillas. they were crying out to be consumed.

they cannot be denied!

not at all! best to give them what they want, really

:9 nom nom nom

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lol tenses /jazzhands

i tensefail constantly. >_< /cool move with a bowler hat

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